These Days Are Gone
by KatZen
Summary: Saying goodbye is never easy.


**Disclaimer****: ****The Thunderbirds do not belong to me. They are the intellectual and actual property of Gerry Anderson and his affiliates.**

These Days Are Gone

I can't sleep.

Haven't been able to sleep.

Not for the past two weeks.

Not since The Incident.

I toss and turn, plagued with Lucille dancing and laughing in front of me, not a care in the world. I roll over; reach for the warmth of her body, but she's not there. I call out her name, but she doesn't respond.

How can she?

She hasn't responded for the last two weeks.

Not even I can raise the dead.

I toss off the covers, shove my feet into some slippers and prowl around. On the curtain rod, a dark suit hangs. The clothes my mother has deemed appropriate for today.

Black pants.

Black shirt.

Black tie, belt and shoes.

Black suit jacket.

Too much black.

Anger boils up inside me. Anger and hatred at Lucille for leaving me. Despair that she's left me to raise our five boys by myself, all the assistance my mother's giving me be damned. Disgust at her for not being strong enough to hold on until Search and Rescue Services found her, buried under the snow with Scott. If a nine year old could survive the harsh conditions, surely she could have done it too. And loathing myself for feeling this way, constantly blaming the woman I love for the mess we're in.

I want to forgive her, but I can't. Not when it's too raw, too painful.

The bedroom suffocates me. I can't stay in here, not with all the hints of Lucille. Pictures of her and me, smiling, some with our babies in our arms, others with just us. Her shirts and jeans strewn over the overflowing hamper, since I had forgotten to put a load of washing on. My mother has tried to wrangle the basket away from me, but I won't let her. Socks she kicked off in the middle of the night decorating the foot of the bed.

Even her Goddamn scent lingers in the air, wafting around, most intoxicating when I'm thinking of her, thinking of the way we were together. Two parts to a whole.

Jeff and Lucille Tracy, the relationship that was meant to last until we were old and grey, with grandchildren and maybe even great grandchildren running around, underfoot.

Only it didn't.

Not Jeff and Lucille anymore.

Just Jeff.

And Lucille.

Not even that.

Just Jeff.

I storm out of the room, head to the kids bathroom, slam the door behind me and flick on the light. My pupils contract as the harsh stream off white bounces of gleaming tiles. I lean heavily on the sink, watch at the sunken in face, grey-tinged skin pulled taut over cheekbones, sullen eyes staring back at me, lifeless.

My reflection, how I feel, depicted in my flesh.

The band around the fourth finger of my left hand throbs, restricts blood flow to the digit. I rip it off, grasp my wedding ring, inscription side down, into my palm so it leaves an imprint.

Always and forever.

_Always and forever._

Fucking lies.

The anger bubbles up inside of me again. I throw the ring down into the sink; watch it rattle its way down the drain. It's gone in a glint of gold. Lucille's gift to me, and I've thrown it away. I regret it instantly. One act in anger causes me even more heartache. I didn't know that was even possible.

I pull on the drain plug, wanting to remove the metal grille so I can thrust my hand down and save one of the most precious things to me before it's too late.

I panic, rummage around in the cabinet under the sink. I'll rip out the drainpipes with my bare hands to get my ring back if I have to. I find a wrench, struggle to loosen the bolts that secure the drainpipe together. Water flows free, flooding the floor, but I don't give a damn. I can only hope that I haven't lost it forever.

I can't see it. I can feel my eyes begin to leak, drops of fluid overflowing onto my cheek. How could I have been so stupid? Lucille would never forgive me for that.

I must have made some sort of sound, an anguished yell or maybe a guttural, throaty noise, because the next thing I see is my mother kneeling down beside me.

"Oh, Jeff," she says, pulling me close to her, regardless of the fact we are both sitting in a puddle of grey water.

"I've lost it," I mumble, numb, showing her my left hand. "I've lost Lucy's ring."

I look at her, expecting her to say something, but she remains quiet. What can one say to that?

"Jefferson, you haven't lost it," she assures me. "I'll get it back for you."

"How?"

She shoots me a look I can't decipher.

"I'm your mother, Jefferson. I'll find a way. Have I ever lied to you or let you down before?"

I shake my head, feeling the water seep its way through thin, cotton pyjama pants.

"Now, you scoot off back to your room and rest, Jefferson."

I can't bring myself to go back. Instead, after poking my head around the rooms of my sons, I head down to the sofa. Lying lengthways, with my feet hanging off the end of the armrest, I pull a light blanket over my head and stare into oblivion.

* * *

><p>I suppose I must have dozed off, or at least zoned out, at some point, because when I become aware of my surroundings, the sun shines through a window. Not a cloud in the sky. Birds chirp their happy little songs. Frogs croak from the jungle like grass. Even the flying insects seem to hum merrily. Damn Florida weather and insect infestation.<p>

Mother Nature mocks me, mocks this day, with her relentless cheeriness.

I wonder why the world isn't mourning, isn't stuck in a state of perpetual sadness while I say goodbye to my little Lucy. There should be rain pouring from the sky as the entire planet acknowledges what I have been left with, with what I've lost.

I conclude that Mother Nature is a cold, heartless bitch.

I stumble around, head to the liquor cabinet and down three two-fingered shots, just to dull the ache in my heart, flood and fill the hole that's there with something. Not necessarily the best thing to fill myself with, but I know I won't be able to stuff my face with food instead. It's the only thing I have.

I can hear cutlery and general hubbub coming from the kitchen, so I head there. I stand in the doorway and watch Mother as she fusses around Gordon and Alan, making sure that Alan doesn't drop his egg-and-soldier-without-the-egg breakfast on the floor, like the two year old is prone to. She makes sure that Gordon, half-dressed for the funeral, doesn't smear strawberry jam in his hair or dribble honey on his shirt. She keeps him looking presentable, or as presentable as the almost four year old can be.

My eight year old, John, scrapes some butter over a piece of bread, lopping off a corner that's grown some mould on it, before placing it in front of Virgil.

Virgil shoves it away, pouting and crossing his arms in the way only a six year old could manage. "Don't want it. I want Count Chocula, Grammy."

My heart sinks at that. With the events of the past two weeks, I've been eating through my savings faster than I can make money. Lucille's funeral – I want her to have the best, and the best doesn't come cheap - the six or so contracts I was hoping to sign falling through, and the stock price of my company plummeting to lows I have never seen before means that I don't have two dimes to rub together.

I don't have enough capital to support my family, give them the life they deserve, give them the life Lucille would expect me to give them.

I don't have any assets that I can liquidate to raise capital.

I'll be up to my eyeballs in debt by the end of this week.

Another thing to resent Lucille for. And another thing to hate myself for hating her.

"Eat the bread, Virgil," I growl, shame at my lack on financial stability driving my mood further down south. "It's all we have. You too, Johnny."

John flinches and ducks his head, blond curls falling over his eyes as I call him by the name Lucille used. He won't talk for the rest of the week now. Selective mutism as a reaction to the trauma of his mother's death.

Raw nerves irritated.

I know that better than anyone.

I count my brood, falling one short.

"Where's Scott?" I demand. It isn't like my eldest to be the last one up, especially when there's breakfast in the air. Although, bread, jam and butter _shouldn't_ pass for breakfast.

"I'll get him going," Mother replies, shoving a steaming mug of coffee in my hands. "You drink that and then shower, shave and get dressed."

She leaves, and I sit opposite John and next to Virgil. I try to dredge up a small, sad smile for them, but I've forgotten how to smile. It comes out as a grimace, which wigs Virgil out. His eyes, a perfect copy of Lucy's, except they're sad and solemn, dart back down to his plate of bread and for the rest of the time I'm there, he doesn't look up.

I dump the mug in the sink; fill it up with water so the porcelain of the cup isn't stained brown. It's one of those quirky things Luc made me do when we first got married. Old habits die hard.

I trail up the stairs slowly, pause outside Scott, John and Virgil's room as I hear voices. I don't mean to eavesdrop, but I can't help it.

"Scotty, honey, it's time to get up and get dressed."

I imagine Scott's burrowed under his covers, still in his pyjamas.

"I'm not going, Grammy."

In my mind's eye, I can see Scott sit up on the mattress, cross his legs under his body like butterfly wings.

"Going," he continues, voice set at a high pitched squeal. I can tell he's choking back tears.

"Going means saying goodbye. Saying goodbye… makes it final."

I can sense Scott crawling onto her lap, arms and legs tangled together as he grips to her small frame like a koala bear.

"Scott, baby…" Mother's voice trails off into nothing.

There's silence. I make to move, but my feet have morphed into tree trunks, rooting me to the spot.

"Dad hates me," he continues, and now I can hear the sob in his voice. "Dad hates me because I'm alive and Mom isn't. It should be the other way around! Daddy needs Mommy! He doesn't need me. Because I survived, I killed Mom. I read the report; if I wasn't there, Mom would have had enough air to survive."

The tree trunks have reverted back to legs, and they lead me straight to him. I lift him off my mother and crush him to my chest.

"Scott, Scott, Scotty, listen," I say, rubbing his back in circles as I feel his tears slick their way down my chest. Flood breaks have broken, and there seems to be no way of damming the flow. If Scott's been continuing to blame himself for his mother's death, even though I've tried to convince him otherwise, I'm surprised he hasn't broken down sooner. Two weeks is a long time to rack up guilt.

"Scott, you listen to me!" I order, hint of steel in my voice, wiping tears from his cheeks. "You did not kill your mother. Do you hear me? You did _not_ kill her."

Scott nods without conviction. We both know that even though I speak the truth, he'll continue to blame himself until _his_ dying day.

"Scott, Mommy may be gone, but I am so, so glad and grateful that you're alive. I am so proud that you were brave enough, and strong enough to hang on until they found you under the snow," I tell him, feelings as open and honest as I can get them. "Mommy means the world to me, but you mean just as much. I need you just as much as I need her."

Scott clearly doesn't know how to respond to that, so he just keeps quiet, sniffling as he tries in vain to control his emotions.

"Scotty, the fact that you were there with Mommy when she… when she went, you would have made it easier for her. Thank you."

It isn't until Scott wipes the tears off my cheek that I realise I've broken down too. He stares up at me, vivid blue eyes shimmering under the watery layer that's formed, asks me tentatively, "Dad? D'you.. could you help me with the knot for my tie?"

* * *

><p>We, amongst all the other funeral goers, congregate in the small chapel. Open casket, so people go and see her, one last time. From across the aisle, her parents glare steadfastly at me, stony looks of disapproval etched into wrinkles in their skin. I welcome it; I deserve it. They can despise me for the loss of their daughter, but it will never measure up to the amount that I despise myself. I lost my wife, the woman I had vowed to love, honour and protect.<p>

Virgil, old enough to remember them from the last time we saw them, breaks free from our rank and darts over to them. They shun him; pretend he doesn't exist and turn their backs on him. He shuffles back to me, brown eyes drowning in tears, unable to comprehend what just happened. I pawn Gordon off to John, cradle Virg closer to me and place a restraining hand on Scott's shoulder, barring him from marching up to them to demand an explanation and apology for what they did.

I gather that we won't have any affiliation with them in the future, both near and distant. The boys will grow up knowing only a grandmother, as opposed to two grandmothers and a grandfather.

The pastor begins to talk, waffle on over the circle of life, read her favourite passage from the Bible, and talk about how she would spend her eternal life in peace. I choose not to listen, drown his voice out with memories of my own.

I can remember the first time she called me an imbecile after we married. It's one of those memories that seemed trivial at the time, but suddenly become so important in the wake of what was lost.

It was the third night of our honeymoon. For the first night, and the entirety of the second day, we were holed up in our hotel suite, exploring the unbridled passion between us, loving, laughing and eating room service between the sheets. We would have continued in that pattern – she was insatiable in her love for me and I was the same about her – but sheer exhaustion had forced us to stop. Somewhere in those two days, we had positive confirmation that Scott was alive and kicking inside of her, but I digress. On that third night, she had emerged from the en-suite, with her face masked in a layer of green gunk. Having never lived with a woman before, my mother as the exception, I had no idea that this was what women did as part of their nightly ritual. It freaked me out slightly, and I wondered if an alien had abducted my Lucy and left this being in her place.

"Greetings," I had begun uncertainly, holding my hand up in the Spock-sign. "Should I take you to my leader, the lord and master of all things supreme?"

"You imbecile!" she spat out acidly, whacking me lightly on the arm as she climbed into the king-sized bed, waving her wedding band under my nose. "I am your leader now!"

I laugh at the memory, a scandalous thing to do at a funeral, so I bury my head in a tissue and pretend to cry instead. In that moment, it hits me. I'll never have the chance of deliberately winding Lucille up enough for her to call me an imbecile again.

I don't have to pretend for long. The tears quickly come, and I let them fall; remain unchecked as they track down my cheek. Let them see my grief, let them all see how much I loved her, how much I still do. Scott and John burrow into my side, while Virgil snuggles closer to me from where he sits in my lap. From his grandmother's arms, Alan throws two chubby limbs around my neck and wipes his nose on the shoulder of my suit jacket. Even though he's only two, and he can't understand what's happening, he can still sense the sombre mood and adjust his attitude to match accordingly.

I stay like that for what feels like an eternity. I wait until all the other funeral goers see Lucille for the last time before she's cremated. The chapel empties out painstakingly slowly. Mother leads the boys up to the casket, holding them close to her. Alan, seeing Lucille and thinking she is just asleep, squirms and tries to wriggle out of Mother's grasp so he could cuddle his Mommy. Gordon's bottom lip turns down and wobbles. Virgil spares the casket one glance before staring at the carpeted floor. John doesn't look up at all.

Not once.

Scott, by contrast, hasn't made his way to the casket. Curled up into himself, he sits at the end of the pew, head resting against his shoulder. I wish he would go up to her and say a few, final words, but at the same time, I know he was the one who watched her as she died. He was the one who saw the light spark out of her eyes. He heard her final breath as she slipped from the Land of the Living.

There are some things in life he'll only want to see once.

I wish I can spare him the pain, the guilt and the conflict he's facing within himself now, but I don't know how. Despite expectations, fatherhood does _not_ leave me with all the answers.

The boys and Mother retreat, giving me privacy to say one last goodbye to the love of my life. As I approach, the paster offers his condolences, speaks a few kind words about her, and offers his support for as long as we need it.

I nod mutely, voice having decided to take a vacation in absentia.

He leaves, scoots off into a small room, and I am finally alone with Lucille. Finally seeing her, face to face, for the last time.

I stroke the side of her cheek gently, press a tender kiss to her lips, and rest my forehead against hers.

"Luc, only you," I say, forcing my voice to return. "There'll only ever be you."

I stay there for a few more moments; let one single solitary tear drop onto her cheek, marking my territory. She was mine, still is mine, the only girl who belonged with me.

There are so many things I want to say, so many things I should have said and done before.

Should have told her I loved having our kids with her.

Should have told her I loved her.

Should have told her how much I loved her. More than the stars and the moon itself.

Should have told her I loved loving her.

Should have told her I loved the good times we had, the bad times we struggled through and all the times in between.

Should have made love to her one last time, tender and caring, whispering all the qualities that made me fall in love with her in her ear.

Instead, I settle for something less. It's not enough, it will never be enough, but it's all I can offer her now.

Another kiss on her lips. A stroke of her hair, tracing the contours of her face with my hands, committing her to memory.

"I love you, Lucille Tracy. Always and forever."

_Always and forever. _

I can't bring myself to say goodbye, even as the lid is closed and she's taken from me. From my side, from my life.

Leaving me to cope, or at least try to, without her steady presence, her comfort and reassurance that things would work out the way they did for a reason.

I learn that saying goodbye for the last time, to anyone, is never easy.


End file.
